Plugged (Daniel McEvoy 1)

While she’s thinking, Ronelle paws at an automatic in the sink, picking it up with fingers that are still white.

‘That’s probably loaded, Ronnie. Just so you know.’

She twists her frozen finger around the stock. ‘Loaded. Okay. Christ, I hope my spazzy fingers don’t accidentally shoot someone.’

I swallow drily. ‘Okay. Funny. Now I got to get going.’

The automatic is pointed roughly at my groin. ‘I’m supposed to let you walk?’

I try to look earnest and good. ‘Come on, Deacon. I’m just a complication. If I disappear, all is right in the world.’

The siren is right out front. Red light swings across the roof through the blinds. I start tapping my foot; can’t help it. The foot-tapping jiggles my anklet, so I quickly saw through the strap with a handy cleaver.

‘You look like shit, McEvoy,’ comments Deacon as I work.

‘Guy tagged me when I was trying to save your life for the second time,’ I say picking up Barett’s phone which I have become attached to.

I hope I didn’t overplay the hero thing. Doesn’t matter really, because any Brownie points I might have accumulated are about to be wiped out.

‘Yep, so anyways, I gotta put you back in the freezer,’ I say, stuffing the anklet in my pocket.

Deacon’s face says what the fuck?

‘My plan was fine, until the last bit about you breaking out and going Rambo.’

Deacon doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I’m pretty sure she’s thinking about shooting me in a vein.

‘You’re a good cop, Ronelle. I know it. This is your chance to be a good cop again. It might cost you a few brain cells, but you can offer that up to Jesus. That’s what we do in Ireland.’

Deacon mulls it over, then hands me my jacket and nods at the freezer door.

‘You’re right. I gotta go back in, fuck it.’

It really is the only way. If the blues find Deacon strapped to a gurney in a locked freezer, then she is totally clear. She can even claim memory loss.

‘It’s just for a few seconds; they’re right here, and I turned the temperature up.’

Ronelle lets me hoist her back inside. ‘Well turn it back down, dipshit. I hope it’s not Krieger and Fortz. Those two couldn’t find their dicks with a dick-o-scope.’

Dick-o-scope. Nice.

I lay Deacon on the trolley, hoping her frozen marrow doesn’t snap, and strap her down just tight enough.

Before I can secure her right arm, she reaches up and catches my jaw with one shivering hand.

‘I’m cold, Daniel,’ she says.

‘It’s just for a minute.’

She pulls me down for an icy kiss. I feel our lips stick together.

‘Thanks for coming back. I won’t forget it. Next time I catch you for murder one, I might break it down to manslaughter.’

‘Appreciate it.’ It takes a lot for someone like Deacon to say thank you; I expected the barb on the end as soon as she started the sentence.

‘You better get out of here before I start warming up.’

Cute.

I am out of there.

CHAPTER 11

I worked for Zeb off and on for a few years, mostly around Manhattan, and I saw gallons of Botox injected into acres of skin. The money was irregular but good, and I have to admit that the perks were exciting; only problem was, the ladies that Zeb had ministered to were not supposed to do a lot of jiggling for twenty-four hours, so things could be a little muted.

We got on okay at first. When I say okay, I mean I never had to ask more than five times for my money, and he never tried to hold back more than forty per cent. On one occasion I was forced to shake him by the collar, but that was as rough as it got. Nobody tried to rip him off either for the first year, which really pissed Zeb off; in his twisted mind, nobody ripping him off was tantamount to me ripping him off, as he was paying me for nothing. I tried explaining that I was a bit like a nuclear deterrent, but Zeb refused to see the sense in this, as it didn’t align with how he was thinking. It got so that he started to pick fights with people, daring them to screw with him, or rather with me. Mostly these people were confused housewives who had never heard verbal abuse before that wasn’t filtered through the TV, but every once in a while the household had its own security and I took a couple of unnecessary punches because Zeb felt the need to big himself up. It got so he took to strutting down Eighth Avenue like Tony Minero, tossing insults left and right. He barely noticed me, just took my presence for granted. One night I just stopped at the crosswalk and let him go ahead with his motherfucker this and get out of my way asshole that, until some college kid pounded him a good one in the side of the face. The kind of punch that makes everyone who sees it go damn.

We parted company soon after and I upped sticks for Cloisters, but after six months Zeb tracked me down and set up Kronski’s Kures in the mini-mall. For almost a year he claimed the relocation was on account of me being his only friend. But one night in O’Leary’s, he got so drunk that he forgot who I was and confided in who he thought I was, saying how some pusher’s girlfriend in Queen’s had a permanent droop on one side of her face on account of the cheap botulism he pumped into her forehead and he was hiding out here in the Styx with the big Mick until things cooled down. But then he started making good green here in Cloisters and decided to stay a while.

I don’t work for Zeb any more, though he begs me every day. I just hang around with him for free. It’s nice to have a whiskey buddy, plus we have this thing we do with movie references and song titles. Can be lots of fun.

I’ve been in worse shape, but not recently. Seems to me there was a time when I could take punishment the way a young man takes his liquor; go all night and still function at work the next day. Now I’m grunting with every step, walking like my bones are made of glass. The various tussles with Bonzo, the tuna-melt guy and Faber’s goons have really taken a toll, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I die earlier than I should as a direct result.

At least the book is closed on Faber, unless he can generate himself a fresh ticker. Whatever his reasons for murdering Connie, he took them to the grave. Maybe when he floats out of the Tunnel, he’ll have to explain himself to St Peter. For his sake, I hope he can come up with something better than she slapped me, Jesus. I would pay good money to hear that conversation.

The Deacon problem is on hold. But I have a feeling that as soon as Ronnie gets bored of the super-cop tag, she’ll be giving me a call. It would be nice to believe that Detective Deacon would be in my corner should I need some badge. I’ll make the call if I have to, but I’m not counting any chickens. First and foremost Ronnie is a cop, and she’ll uphold the law even if it means hanging her and me both.

Counting chickens? pipes up Ghost Zeb, still hanging on in there. What the hell are you doing counting chickens?

Don’t you listen? I’m not counting chickens.

Counting chickens, not counting chickens, I could give a shit. All these situations you’re closing the door on, what about me? I’m out there somewhere.

Probably dead.

Probably, yes. But did you ever think that I could just be maimed? I’m out there somewhere with my dick cut off, I got maybe forty-five minutes to make it to the ER for reattachment surgery.

I can’t help wincing.

Okay, Zeb, okay. I’ll make a few enquiries.

When?

Soon. Very soon. I just have to pick up my funds at the bus station, then square things with work and Mrs Delano.

I’m bleeding to death and you’re squaring things?

If I find you, will you get out of my head?

Not only that, but I’ll do all your check-ups for free.

Yeah, see that’s how I know you’re not the real Zeb.

My apartment should be goon-fr

ee now that Faber’s breath has fogged its last mirror. Just in case there are any hostile stragglers, I dial a phoney B&E call into the local blues from Mr Hong down the hall and slip upstairs to Sofia’s apartment when the cruiser whoops up to the steps.

Sofia Delano pulls open her door before the knock reverb fades and stands before me, chest heaving like she’s run a mile to get there.

‘Carmine,’ she breathes. ‘I’ve been waiting so long.’

I slip inside her lobby, passing close, feeling the breath from her upturned mouth on my cheek, seeing the sheen of her lipstick.

Delano reminds me of someone. Not Cyndi Lauper any more; another eighties icon. Blonde hair, blow-dried big. Striped woollen dress, leggings and ballet pumps.

Ghost Zeb puts his finger on it. We’re the kids in America, woh-oh.

‘My Kim Wilde look,’ says Sofia Delano. ‘You always liked it, Carmine. Remember that club? The One Eight Seven? Those were good times.’

She looks wonderful, smells intoxicating. If only I could remember the good times.

‘Mrs Delano . . . Sofia . . . I’m not Carmine. I’m Daniel McEvoy, from downstairs. You hate me, remember?’

She takes my face in her hands. ‘Not any more,’ she says and kisses me hard. Not any more? Does that mean she doesn’t hate me any more? Or she doesn’t remember?

I don’t know, and for a moment I don’t care.

And even though I didn’t share the eighties with this woman, I do remember the decade. And here they are, coming around again. With sweet chocolatey perfume, shoulder pads, the haze of hairspray and soft red lips. This is more than a kiss; it’s a time machine.

I feel Sofia’s sprayed hair scratch my cheek, and hear the moan in her throat like all her dreams have come true, and I want to weep. Is this how low I have sunk, making out with a disturbed woman?

I push her gently away, hearing the soft pop as the vacuum seal of our lips is broken.

‘W . . . wait,’ I stammer. ‘This is not right. I can’t . . . we can’t.’

There is a bruise of lipstick smeared across her upper lip. ‘Sure we can, baby. It’s not the first time. But let’s do it like it’s the last.’

What an invitation. You could sell a movie with a tag-line like that.